


Tin Roof Rusted

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Danse nearly breaks his dong inside his power armor, M/M, Oral Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:11:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7895692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sole and Danse stop at the Red Rocket for the night, not realizing that Hancock is there. PWP</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tin Roof Rusted

They arrive at the Red Rocket Truck Stop exhausted, and worn. It's similar to the other franchises littering the Commonwealth Danse has seen before, but modified with a walled perimeter and the steady beeping of turrets that peek just over its walls. They only seem to track his own movements, swiveling on their pedestal as the Sole Survivor approaches the gate.

Barking accompanies the jingle of his keys, "Hey, Dogmeat. Give me a second!" It's excited, friendly barking, but it still puts Danse on edge. There's few nonferal dogs in the wastes. There's a light on, inside, dim but distinctly lit. Sole unlatches the lock on the front, the door creaking open.

Danse watches as a large dog with all its fur bounds forward, nearly knocks Sole right off his feet, even in his new power armor. He laughs and simply gathers the entirety of the German Shephard in his arms, almost comical with how damn large the dog is, its tail thumping noisily against his armor.

"Is someone there?"

Danse stills, his hand going to his rifle. Sole leans over to let Dogmeat down; the dog easily lopes back, meeting Hancock's outstretched palm with his wet nose. Hancock doesn't look down to recognize the dog beyond that, stepping out of the darkness of the building to the outdoor lights; there a strange tenseness between them that brings an unease to the air, disrupts the steady beep of the turrets and the far off noises of crickets and roaches and molerats. Danse isn’t quite socially perceptive, but even he notices it; he can’t quite grasp exactly what is hanging heavy between them, however, reaching for it and only coming away with air in his palms.

Finally, the clearing of Sole's throat: "Thought you went back to Goodneighbor."

Hancock stops, leaning against the wall of the entry way to the Red Rocket building. He crosses his arms over his chest, shrugs. "Thought I'd stick around." He glances back at Danse. His smile is long and thin. "See you brought your buckethead."

Danse doesn't bother to look at him; he doesn’t deserve it. “That’s Paladin to you, freak.”

Sole hunches his shoulders, adjusts his rucksack on his back. There’s a stony silence from the other two men. “Seriously?” He levels his glare between them. “We’re not children, right?”

Danse’s gaze is steely. “Some of us aren’t even human.”

Sole turns on him. “Hey!” The rising of his voice corresponds with the beeps of the turrets; they turn, slowly, towards the commotion. “No cheap shots. Let’s keep this civil. I’m too god damn tired for this right now.”

"I'll disregard your language considering we have walked for most of the day, Knight." Danse intones drily, risking a glance towards Hancock.

Hancock's eyebrows shoot up high on his forehead. "Knight, now! Woah-oh."

Sole runs a hand over his buzz cut skull, exhales long and slow through his nostrils. Loud enough that they can both hear it. "Please. The two of you. Look. 'Pologies to the both of you and all of that other horseshit..." He grumbles; Hancock steps aside for the bulk of his armor as he walks past him. Danse frowns at the back of his head.

"You followin', tin can?" Hancock asks.

Danse sneers as he passes Hancock; he doesn't try to side sweep Hancock as he passes, but he wouldn't be adverse to it happening, Hancock pressing himself flush to the wall to avoid him.

Down a narrow hallway and to his right, he sees the outline of Sole in his armor, puttering around in the corner of a separate room. He turns when Danse enters, eyebrows rising.

"Hey, make yourself comfortable. This is your bed for the night." Sole flashes him a tired smile as he hefts his bag a little higher up on the pauldron of his power armor. "I'm gonna put away the ammo we found in the encampment."

Danse nods, slow, clearing his throat behind a fist he raises to his mouth: "Of course. And you..?"

"I've got cots in the other room and the garage." They have to maneuver themselves carefully in such a small space to avoid contact; Sole shimmies past, looking sheepish as they waltz around each other and a small bed. "Don't worry about me. Suit off and rest easy, okay? I'm serious--" He cuts in, just as Danse's mouth opens to protest, "There ain't a chance someone can get past the turrets Sturges installed for me."

Danse closes his mouth, and nods, once. "Alright. Good night."

Sole grins. "Ad Victoriam."

He turns, the hydraulics of his armor hissing and clinking down the hallway. Danse watches him disappear into the garage. He should be exhausted. They had spent the entire day slogging it through the wasteland, taking down two bands of weedy, young raiders, and a sizable swarm of ferals near Walden Pond.

Ferals. He knows it's Hancock's presence that is keeping him awake, knowing the ghoul is nearby. He could be sleeping in the room on the opposite wall. Unacceptable, the type of company Sole kept; he didn't realize the dangers as a pre-war man, couldn't grasp the dangers of a ghoul who could go feral at any moment.

Danse finds himself walking out of the room before he fully makes up his mind. He doesn't want to do anything rash; he's not going to refuse the sleeping quarters, but he will make sure Sole is watched over until he retires to his bed. He's not subtle, clanging down the halls, even if he could. He had passed the entryway to the garage on his way down the hallway, and so he heads towards the dim source of light, and the sound of voices.

His hulking form stops in the doorway. Danse feels his breath catch in his throat. The ghoul is—kissing him. And it is soft, and tender. It is not like the quick pecks he’s seen between families, or the tawdry clashing of maws he’s seen while confiscating prohibited holotapes. He cradles Sole’s face between his irradiated hands, draws his lips into a kiss that has Sole melting against him. It's brief and simple, pulling away just slightly, but still touching.

“I missed you.”

Danse’s nose crinkles. His voice is ravaged, and hoarse; a ghoul, through and through, pantomiming feelings it must have felt years ago when more human. And yet Sole’s leaning forward, and his eyes are glinting in the dim lighting of the garage.

“I… yeah. I missed you, too.” He presses his forehead to Hancock’s, and the motion bumps Hancock’s hat askew. The ghoul laughs, but the noise is swallowed by Sole’s mouth.

Danse turns away, out of disgust. That’s what it is, disgust—not the tightening of his throat, or the tightening of the southern region of his pants. He’s never felt arousal when he’s read over the logs of some initiate being caught in a carnal embrace with a synth, his mind never flashed back to that time a scribe got caught behind the airport with a secret ghoul lover—

He turns back, and his heart skips a beat.

In the amount of time he took to rest his eyes and look away, Sole had hauled the smaller, leaner ghoul up on the workshop bench. His hands are shoved underneath his clothes, with no disregard to the stretching or pulling of the material as they roam; Hancock squirms, gasps as he pulls his lips away from Sole's.

"Let me take care of you?"

"No, 'm... C'mere."

Sole's hands pull out from his shirt, and then grab the hem, hiking it up as far as it will go without undoing any buttons: it catches somewhere on his upper chest. The ghoul is skinny, corpse-thin, so of course he can practically pull off all the layers without any impediment. Danse has seen ferals before, and many are mostly nude, wearing threadbare rags or armor barely holding on. This is the most amount of skin, or what they call skin, he's ever seen on a non-feral. Pockmarked and rough, Sole kisses each knotted scar and tangled bundle of muscle that presses against the leather-tanned exterior. He has no nipples, and he is running blunt nails down the expanse of skin, stopping at his hips.

Danse is disgusted. This is morally reprehensible; he should be immediately reported to Cade, for a physical and proper mental screening. Sole will probably be dressed down, at the least, expelled from the Brotherhood, at the worst--

Hancock moans. His ruined hands look stark against the back of Sole's head, skin golden and tanned in the low candle light. He is kissing down, down.

"Lift your hips," Muffled as his voice is, he can hear the low drawl of an accent more southern than the Capital Wasteland clearly. Danse squeezes his eyes closed. He can still hear it; the unbuckling of a belt, metal clanging just too-loud when it hits the weapon bench and then the floor.

"Shit, it's cold--"

"Here, lemme just..."

"Ah, yeah." A throaty laugh, "The whole, taking the shirt off so I can let you sit on it but it's really to show off my beautiful body schtick."

"Aw, ain't a shtick-- let your boney ass freeze and bruise--"

There's muffled laughter and more soft, wet noises. Kissing open mouthed, gasping breaths.

This is worse. The back and forth banter is much worse. Danse opens his eyes; Sole's back is hunched over, bare. From his angle, he can see Hancock's dick jutting from his lap, lean and long and strangely scarred. Ridged, almost.

(Thinks, just briefly, just very briefly what it would feel like, almost.)

Danse doesn't have time to gasp his disgust as Sole's hands slide around his thighs, his hands so large compared to his lean frame it looks like he could wrap his entire hand around it. He swallows just the head of his horrid cock between his perfect lips. Danse feels a cold sweat break out along his hairline. Shocked. How could he debase himself like this. He can't even understand-- he's heard some of the Knights talk. Especially those that did not pass their quarterly medical inspection, that it certain acts didn't count, though Danse had seen them all as a coward's try at worming their way out of just punishments.

Sole's cheeks hollowed, his eyes fluttering closed as he sucked on just the head of Hancock's cock, head bobbing rhythmically. The ghoul's fingers curl in, trying to find purchase in his buzz cut, trying to push his head downward with an impetuous whine--

This counted. This counted.

Sole finally relents, lips sliding down the length of Hancock's shaft and he groans in relief; and Danse, too, lets out an exhale he hadn't even realized he had been holding in. He tightens his grip into a fist, rests it on top of the crotch of his power armor.

He is hard. He is so painfully hard in his armor, so hard even as each bob of the Sole Survivor's head is met with his own internal chanting of disgusting, disgusting, disgusting-- this is filthy, this is wrong. He cannot even imagine what a ghoul would taste like. He's noticed all ghoul's have a similar smell, something bitter like sweat and exertion, a faint prickle of radiation. And here Sole has a ghoulified-- in his mouth, down his throat, moaning around it like he enjoys it, kneading his thighs.

But Danse does wonder, and he thinks on it. He thinks what it must feel, to have Hancock's scarred cock jutting down his throat, the heavy taste of his precum on his palette. Threatening to gag him with his anxious thrusts, small and insistent, that he sees him indulging in as Sole takes his cock with ease. Danse, though-- he knows he would choke, his eyes would water. Hancock would debase him entirely and thoroughly, fuck his open mouth, into his throat.

Fruitlessly grinding the heel of his palm against the front of his power armor, he darts a glare downward at his traitorous, traitorous self, then back up—

And he meets Hancock’s eyes, and his lips are twisted knowingly as he voices his orgasm.

Danse finds himself stumbling; the movement’s too jerky for the bulk of his power armor, too fast, and he nearly finds himself on his ass from the weight of the metal sarcophagus he carries around on his back. It's loud, louder still in Danse's ears.

"Wha-?"

Sole's confusion is cut off by kissing, but Danse does not linger to watch, to see if he truly made it out of sight as he's scrambling back to his room. He powers down his armor halfway down the hallway; he throws himself out of the back so fast the calf of his suit catches on a corner, almost tears when he jerks his leg away and out. He rushes to his room, closing the door and slamming his back up against it.

There are no other noises, not any he can hear from this far away. No noise save for his own heavy breathing. The cot is unbearably firm against his chest, his stomach, even through his suit. He lets his erection hang painfully heavy between his legs, until he can taste the bitter pain of it in the back of his throat. He doesn't touch it. He doesn't undress. He closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. :) If you enjoyed it check out my other m!ss/Hancock fics or leave a comment.


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